


If Music Doth Soothe the Savage Beast

by BackwoodsNecromancer



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Fluff, M/M, ghoul stanford au, it's fiddauthor time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 08:16:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4912066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BackwoodsNecromancer/pseuds/BackwoodsNecromancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sleep never came all that easy to Stanford, and now that he's supposed to be some nocturnal, blood-sucking demon, that just makes it harder on him. Fortunately, Fiddleford is there to help- whether he's aware he did or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Music Doth Soothe the Savage Beast

**Author's Note:**

> Ghoul!Stanford AU is courtesy of cirilee on tumblr, I didn't come up with the idea. The contents of the fic, however, are all me.

Stanford was not used to seeing so clearly in the dark. The furnishings of his bedroom loomed about him, strangely visible despite the fact it was the dead of night and he’d gotten rid of all light sources evident. Still, however, he could make out the edges of his bookcase and curves of his dresser, and sleep would not come. He wasn’t surprised. His new “affliction” had made him (hopefully temporarily) nocturnal; that didn’t go well with his human nature, which urged him to sleep at night. The result had been a very fatigued and very grouchy Stanford Pines, who flinched away from harsh lights and couldn’t comfortably sleep at any time, day or night.

At first it had all been exciting- a new opportunity to learn the ins and outs of a dangerous subspecies firsthand, despite the initial incident that led to the transformation. But now, put bluntly, it was a living hell. It was true he’d gotten good and incredibly detailed information for his journals, but after recording everything both he and Fiddleford could think to, it was just… Awful, really. The human and undead thrall lifestyles certainly didn’t mix well, and it left him a sorry excuse of either one.

That, and he wasn’t exactly fond of drinking Fiddleford’s blood to stay alive. Stanford didn’t like to think about it; in the moment, it might have been gratifying and, yes, necessary for his survival, but… The part of him that was still human recoiled at the notion of it. Fiddleford was dubiously compliant, even insistent, but that was another matter. Being literally bloodthirsty but trying to retain some semblance of ethics was difficult, especially when giving in was so rewarding.

Stanford sighed tiredly, rolling onto his side to face the wall. His eyes were tired and his body ached, and thinking about his current situation drove sleep even further from his grasp. It looked to be another sleepless night to add to his total, and Stanford briefly considered getting himself out of bed just to be occupied- nothing in specific needed done, but he would rather try to work himself to sleep than just wait for it. But before he could move to get up, a sound came from upstairs.

He identified it at once as Fiddleford playing his banjo, but why on Earth would he be up this late? Stanford narrowed his eyes in the darkness; he’d never been able to hear his partner playing from upstairs before. His hearing had likely improved after he’d taken a turn for the undead. That would explain how he could actually hear it- and its accompaniment. Fiddleford was singing, though he couldn’t make out the words, or identify what song it might have been. That was new to Ford- he’d never heard him sing in person. Maybe he was self-conscious of his voice, Ford mused drowsily.

Fiddleford’s muffled voice, quiet and low, floated down from above, partnered with the calm, slow melody from his instrument. Stanford wondered what he could’ve been singing; was it a sad song about a relationship melting away? A serenade to a lover long lost? Or a lament about poor circumstance and bad luck?

The thoughts slowly settled down in Stanford’s mind and he, like a body of water on a clear night, became still and silent; sleep took him swiftly, and in his dreams, the halls of his home filled with light and his partner’s voice.


End file.
